Blackbird
by wobbear
Summary: Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Blackbird**

**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH  
**Disclaimer** Not mine, never were.  
**Spoilers** "Inspired", if you could call it that, by the final scene in 9x05 _Leave Out All the Rest_. And the Beatles song.  
**Author's note** I'm not quite ready to say goodbye to the show and the characters who made me do the unthinkable, attempt to write. So here I am again. It's a little odd, and unbeta'd, so proceed at your peril. This is a sort of prologue. There's more to come; how much I'm not sure.

**Summary** Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.

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1: The Dark Black Night

Gil Grissom has beautiful blue eyes, cornflower blue. They're the first thing I noticed about him. Bright eyes, sparkling with intelligence; "windows to the soul" they may be, but Grissom's are too often guarded, trying to conceal his thoughts, his deep-running feelings. Even so, I can see through the masks he wears, hides behind. How he seeks to protect his inner self from view, how he tries to brush off or ignore the people around him, people who care about him, who are concerned for his wellbeing in this troubled time, who are trying to penetrate his protective shield. I see it all. Not that I enjoy it, seeing him like this. But I understand it.

Tonight his eyes are dull, gray, empty. All the joy of life, of learning, of discovery, of problem solving, has left him. An amorphous cloud of pain, loneliness, despondency and despair cloaks Grissom. The light of his life has departed and he's floundering, adrift in a seething ocean – he can't touch the bottom, has no idea where it is, but he continues desperately treading water because if he stops he will drown.

I've never seen him like this, and I'm worried.

He's talking at last, but seems almost detached from reality. He needs to talk more, to think about what he's going to do, but he's just too tired.

First he needs rest, and I hope I can at least assist him with that. A quiet room, devoid of any associations with his life may give him a brief respite, time to re-group. Seeing him like this, this man who is normally so controlled, so self-contained, unravelling before my eyes is frightening. But he's come to me for help, in his diffident, non-communicative way he's reached out, whether or not he'd admit it. If I can help, I will.

Grissom has stopped talking for now, and may finally be exhausted enough to sleep. I reach out my hand, wordlessly asking him to get up, to follow me, to trust me. He's done the same for me in the past but I know he's not thinking about that now. He's beyond conscious thought. Reflex makes him respond, pressing his hands on his thighs as he shoves to his feet. He sways a little, then steadies himself.

I start to walk, checking over my shoulder to see that he's following. I conceal my sad smile of success when I see him close behind.

In the heavy silence I lead the way upstairs and show him into the guest room. Even now, in his parlous state, he's a gentleman, considerately bending to take off his shoes before lifting his legs and flopping onto the guest room bed with a weary sigh. I wonder about putting a folded cashmere throw blanket on the bed beside him, but he can get under the covers when he wants to. He needs to decide what to do, and when. I'll leave him to it.

As I'm pulling the door closed, he speaks, low and tentative. "Heather … would you stay?"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Blackbird****  
****Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH  
**Disclaimer** Not mine, never were.  
**Spoilers** "Inspired", if you could call it that, by the final scene in 9x05 _Leave Out All the Rest_. And the Beatles song.  
**Author's note** Apologies for the delay since I posted the first chapter/prologue. Life gets in the way sometimes. Hope this was worth the wait. This chapter has had the benefit of a beta by **Smacky30**, so it and we are very fortunate. Thank you, Smacky!

**Summary** Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.

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2: You Were Only Waiting

I admit I'm surprised to see Grissom's car outside … Heather's house. Why I hesitated there is, uh ― well, I don't officially live here. We've been keeping it, us, on the down low. Down very low. That's one of the reasons I've still got my stylish bachelor pad over in Henderson.

Bachelor pad, heh. It's the casita of a house owned by a guy I know from way back when in Jersey, long ago when I was a beat cop with hair and Tony was a waiter in the local Italian. Tony's come up in the world now and he has a fancy place on the ridge, with the pool and the view of the golf course and all. I'll bet that pool costs him a pretty penny with the price of water in this urban desert.

But I digress.

Long story short, a few years ago when Vegas area property values were booming, Tony bought an investment house down in the valley that he was only going to keep short term, then flip for a profit. The market went sour before he got a bite so he's now stuck with a big house worth less than the mortgage that no-one wants to buy even at a big discount. Occasionally he gets some vacation rentals in there, but he's basically biding his time until the market recovers enough that he can get rid of it, cut his losses at a level he can live with.

So a couple of years ago ― no, wait, it was early 07 ― I moved into the casita. The deal is, I pay him way below market rental (he knows how much money cops make, the ones who aren't on the take) and I keep an eye on the big house for him. He and the neighbors like the idea of having a cop in residence. Except I'm hardly ever there now.

Which is where I came in.

xxxxxxx

_  
As I'm pulling the door closed, he speaks, low and tentative. "Heather … would you stay?"_

I wince at the raw plea in Grissom's voice. Even as I wonder at the wisdom of my actions, I see myself closing the door and walking around to the foot of the bed. The thick carpet silences my steps. His left hand is covering his eyes, massaging his temples, while with his right he worries a crease in the bedspread.

I stand there a moment, watching as his fingers fret, as a nail catches on a raised thread in the rich brocade. Then I move toward the head of the bed, balancing with a hand on the nightstand as I crouch down beside him. My robe rustles as I move, and he half opens his eyes. Under the heavy lids I glimpse such naked desolation that my heart clenches. But he needs my help more than my sympathy, so I answer firmly, "No."

After a beat, he blinks, opening his eyes wider. Now confusion fogs them. He frowns, questioning. "N--" His voice catches, so he clears his throat then tries again. "No?"

I repeat that naked "No", shaking my head for emphasis.

"No," I reiterate. "I wouldn't stay. If the love of my life asked me to leave death and despair behind and start a new life together, no way would I stay here, lonely, forlorn."

I pause, seeing his eyes narrow in a squinting scowl. Shrugging, I add, "But I'm not you."

I see a brief flash of fight, of spirit, flicker across his eyes before he huffs out a long breath and rolls onto his back. His bleak eyes wander around the room, quickly passing over my face before skittering away, unable or unwilling, it seems, to hold my steady gaze.

At length he lifts his hands and wearily rubs his face. Rising, I reach under the dressing table and tug the long stool out, dragging it over beside the bed. I settle onto the firm cushioning, and wait in silence. His eyes are closed now, his hands clasped over his belly. But for his thumbs twirling ceaselessly around each other, one might think him asleep.

The gray is more evident in his hair and beard than I recall, a silver sprinkling which is very attractive but hints at the passing of time, the coming frailty of age. But Grissom has many good years ahead of him, if only he can pull himself out of this sorrowful stasis, this lingering limbo and start living again.

I hope I can help him. I owe him my very best effort.

I sigh quietly and get up to pull down the blind, shutting out the rising sun. I turn out the lights, leaving on just one small lamp so I can keep an eye on Grissom. Maybe he will actually sleep now, then we can start work tomorrow. Not "therapy", given his earlier comment, but I know I can get him to talk. And to think. About it all, why he's not with Sara. Where he needs to be. He's been avoiding the big issues long enough.

Sitting back down, I check my watch. He hasn't called, so he should be here soon.

I'll stay with Grissom until Jim arrives.

xxxxxx

So, me and Heather. Or is it "Heather and I"? You can't say "I and Heather" though, can you?

Yeah, I'm avoiding the issue. I could care less about the grammar. See, I'm not good at talking about … personal stuff. "Relationships" I guess is what I mean. Never have been, never will be. Some things just _are. _I don't see the point in talking about them. Hell, I try not to _think _about this stuff a whole lot. Not consciously, any way. My dreams, on the other hand, can be … involved.

You don't need to know about that.

And there's the whole police thing.

I've been a cop … forever, it seems. And I know what my fellow officers are like.

It's just easier to keep our situation quiet than for it to be common knowledge around the PD. Even though she's left her old profession behind, cops are like elephants with their memories, and not the most flexible of thinkers. And hey, I can understand their point of view. For a while, no, a long time I looked askance at Heather, wanted nothing to do with her. Frankly, she pissed me off with her arrogant attitude and her air of superiority. And the whole Dominion thing, I could never get with the stuff that went on there.

But things started to change after her attempted suicide by cowboy. After she got a grip, and then Grissom smoothing the way with her ex ― she got to see her granddaughter and started to come around.

I still remember the shock when she made an appointment to come see me. At the time I wondered if she was going to sue me for being short with her when she wouldn't agree to the rape kit. I wouldn't have put that past her.

I remember I was angry that she refused to help with the investigation, and it made me curt. Abrupt. Yeah, well, probably borderline rude. But that's water under the bridge, over the dam, finito.

And when I think back, I should have noticed that she wasn't her usual confident self during that whole hokey western town scenario.

Hindsight's always 20/20, isn't it?

Anyhow, I agreed to see her, all the while wondering if I needed a union rep in there with me. Something made me decide to wing it and face her alone. I have pretty good instincts, and I trusted in them.

Still, you could've knocked me over with a feather when she came in wearing a quiet gray suit, the kind of thing lawyers wear to court, not her black provocative Dominion style. Put me on notice that she was trying to meet me more than halfway. As if the fact that she'd asked to see me in my office, on my turf, wasn't already a big pointer.

Cutting to the chase, she apologised for her behavior ― "wasting police time", those were her words ― and she told me she was getting help, as I had rather forcefully suggested.

And somehow, something changed. We were both very wary, very cautious, but we began getting together every so often, in an out of the way coffee shop ― just talking. Slowly I discovered the person under her mask. But I was still keeping things close, not "sharing" a whole lot: I've been burned before, and by far less formidable women than Heather.

The big change came in November of that year. Heather was looking a little down when we met, and I asked why. Turned out it was her daughter's birthday; Zoe would have been 24. I had just worked a double, I was beyond tired and I found myself blurting out "I know what it's like, to lose a daughter." I know it's not the same, but I feel it every day. And, ya know, it's tiring bottling it up all the time. Ah, Ellie.

A trouble shared is a trouble halved? I dunno, but talking about things does make you feel less alone.

So, I started opening up more and things, uh, developed and we've ended up here. We've come a long way together and it feels good. It's still our intimate secret though and the idea of all Vegas law enforcement gossiping about me and her is … unappealing.

My thoughts are going around in circles.

I am what I am. And what I am, right now, is putting off the inevitable. Delaying going inside to see why Grissom is here, avoiding my private life becoming public. So, yes, I'm a procrastinating policeman.

Thing is, if the shit hits the fan, if the Sheriff or PD get their panties in a bunch about me and Heather, I'll walk away. I've done my 25 years; I can retire on a full pension. I don't have to put up with any grief.

Back to the immediate issue—yeah, seeing Grissom's car outside her place threw me a bit. A lot, if I'm honest with myself. I'm not sure why. Part of me always knew he'd turn up here sometime. I mean, I know they ― what do I call it? ― connected when they first met. Maybe it was a mutual fascination? But I don't know what went on between them. If anything "happened", quote unquote.

We operate under the "don't ask, don't tell" policy. I don't ask Heather, or Grissom, and they sure as hell aren't telling. They're private people, both of them, and I understand that. I appreciate it. I'm that way myself.

I think Heather would tell me if I asked ― but I choose not to.

Whatever "it" was, it's in the past. Now they're friends, as much as either of them ever have friends.

Grissom, he's a good guy. A great guy, even. He doesn't bond easily with people; he keeps his distance, keeps his thoughts to himself. But once he decides you're worth his time, he'll go to the ends of the earth for you. Except for Sara, of course. Great gal, but she seems to confuse him.

Anyway, he's done good things for Heather, and Heather thinks very highly of him. So I don't ask, and they don't tell. Like I said. Live and let live. We're all adults, moving on with our lives. Well, Grissom seems to be stuck in a hell mostly of his own making right now, but Heather and me, we're doing just fine.

I wonder why Grissom parked outside the gates. There's plenty of space on the driveway by the house. Who knows why he does anything these days?

Okay.

Sitting here in my car isn't getting me inside to find out what's happening. Plus it's breakfast time, and I'm hungry.

Heather would have called if she wanted me to stay away, come by later.

I used to be a marine, for Chrissake.

I'm going in.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Blackbird**

**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH  
**Disclaimer** Not for profit borrowing of the characters.  
**Spoilers** Inspired the final scene in 9x05 _Leave Out All the Rest_. And the Beatles song. Nothing to do with the play. Zilch, zip, nada. Really. But yay for Billy Petersen anyway.  
**Author's note** There are probably a couple more chapters to come, and I'll try to get them up before the new season starts in the US. Meanwhile, big thank yous to **smacky30** for her beta work and to the sweet person who nominated _Blackbird_ for the CSI fanfic awards. I'm very grateful.

**Summary** Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.

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3: Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

Life on board is busy, stimulating and at very close quarters with a disparate bunch of people. Good people, many very smart, most well-meaning, but sometimes I just have to escape. I had enough communal living in foster care. This little cabin is my sanctuary, my refuge. Sometimes I read, sometimes I listen to my ipod. Internet is via satellite and very expensive so it's severely rationed. Mostly that's okay. I don't need to be checking my email each day and not finding a message from Gil. Often though I just lie on my berth and stare at the ceiling, trying to think forward even as my memories flood back.

Occasionally I write my feelings down. I have this conviction (or at least a fervently-held hope) that writing them down, whether on paper or on screen, releases the troubling thoughts from my brain, freeing me.

The evidence shows that theory's not panning out well in practice, but still I feel the urge to write. Or type, as the case may be. Maybe it's something about sharing my thoughts, without having to listen to the sharee's reactions to them.

Sometimes I just want to vent, you know?

Other times I write things down and the next day when I re-read them I feel better, and I say to myself, okay, put that behind you. That works, some of the time. But when the thoughts are about Gil ― and let's face it, a lot of them are ― the putting them behind part me isn't working so well.

That's a large part of why I sent Gil that video. I want to free myself, and him, so we can each move on, find a way to go on. For the rest of our lives. It looks like we'll be going in different directions. I still find that hard to accept.

This chain of consciousness stuff is my sort of a journal. I won't stoop to "Dear Diary, why hasn't Gil answered my video message?" But I was so hoping to jolt him into … something.

He must have seen it by now. If he thought to check his personal email. When he's working all hours, that's one of the things that often escapes his attention. Makes me wish I'd put it on youtube with the private setting ― then at least I would know if he'd opened it. Too late now.

I think I came across as convincing in my message.

I hope I did.

In a way it reminded me of giving evidence in court. Needing to be concise and clear, calm and confident. I know I had problems looking straight into the camera – my eyes kept veering away, darting around. The thing is, I meant what I said. It's the truth, or what goes for it in my warped little version of the world anyway.

Might not hold up in a court of law though.

I said I was happy, and in a way I am. It's not the whole truth. I _am_ happy that I was strong enough to send that video, because I know I have to move on. To let go of the past. Let go of Gil. Let go of the hope that he'll decide to leave Las Vegas, come to be with me. I can't pretend, even to myself, that I'm happy with that thought, but I know I can't keep waiting, keep hoping that he might some day make that leap. I know him, and know how hard that would be for him. His caution, his over-thinking, is part of him. As is his career. His fascination with his work is what first attracted me to him. And it's a large part of who he is, how he relates to the world.

The fact that the brilliance of his summer-sky eyes and the perkiness of his firm butt are warring for second place in my list of his best features is also part of him, my view of him. But he is so much more than the sum of his parts, and singling out individual features in this way demeans both him and me.

Nothing but the truth? I didn't lie. Not exactly. Okay … I admit, I may have asserted things that I _want_ to be true. I'm nowhere near Egypt, but I am in a sense on the slippery banks of the Nile. But I know that I'm doing what I need to do. For me. To move on. Hey, I'm not in a court of law; this is my life. If I want to be in denial, I can be.

"If you love someone set them free." Funny how Sting's song is so much easier to sing along with than to do in real life. While my head understands the logic, my heart clings on to my one and only love.

I need to stop thinking this way. I like to at least pretend I have a clue what I'm doing, that I have a plan for moving forward. But really, I'm feeling my way day by day, working towards my next step. Sometimes it's nice to be stuck on this boat, this ship, because while I'm on board much of my life is organized, my schedule pre-determined. And even in off hours, there's not a lot of privacy. It's better at night. I often end up feigning tiredness so I can politely escape to my compact cabin. It is a little cell-like I guess, but without the bars. And I chose to be here: it was a positive, life-affirming choice that led me here, not some mindless criminal act.

That doesn't stop me feeling trapped at times. It's a small ship and there's nowhere outside of my personal refuge I can reliably go to be alone. Maybe the engine room? But that's noisy and stinks, not what you'd call peaceful. Not a space for quiet reflection. It's better at night but I'm mostly sleeping then. Sleeping. I'm still surprised about that.

The fact is I'm stuck here on this claustrophobic tin can until we call into our next port, and that will be a 24-hour stop at most. The occasional excursion from the mother ship in a Zodiac, to take seawater samples, or to get a closer view of the acrobatic Spinner dolphins gives me a welcome change of scene and can be fascinating, but we always go out in pairs, often groups of three. Besides, the Zodiacs aren't equipped for sleeping. Or going to the bathroom, come to think of it. I've lost count of the number of times I've slid over the side "to cool down" or to "swim with the dolphins" and inwardly cringed at my excuse while urgently letting go. Everyone does it, but still I feel uncomfortable that we claim to be working to protect marine species and environments and then pee in the sea. I guess in the grand scheme of things our urine's not a major pollutant, but it bugs me.

And while the smell of the salt air never fails to thrill me, I've kind of become desensitized. When it's all around you, all the time, you become habituated to it. Like when we went to the Lassen Volcanic National Park on a high school field trip. At first I was overcome by the smell of rotten eggs, then after a couple of days I barely noticed it.

As a kid I was always drawn to the sea. I'd escape from the house knowing that no-one would make the effort to follow me down to the beach. I passed long hours walking on the wet sand, dodging the tide as I collected sea shells and threw a bendy stick of driftwood for Maddie, our black and white beagle cross, to fetch. I would dream of sailing away, way past the choppy gray breakers, southward to where the Pacific was limpid blue, serene, sun-speckled. Of course in my dreams I never realised that I would end up dressing to protect myself from the sun, or how much the wind blows around the equator. But it was a comforting, peaceful vision at a time when a relentless storm was raging at home, and going to the beach saved my sanity. It may have even saved my life.

But that's in the past.

I'm looking forward now.

Still it's different being on shore, where you can wander back over the dunes to the paint-peeling houses as the dusky evening edges to black, and being continually on the sea, moving with it, unable to escape the sound and the motion. I never really got used to earthquakes, although I experienced them often enough. Understanding the science was no help: the fact that the solid earth beneath my feet could suddenly heave, tear apart always unnerved me. The swaying motion of the waves is less jerky, except in a storm, but it's a constant unsettling reminder that I'm at sea.

There's a good metaphor.

I do feel a whole lot better being away from the desert. Maybe I went a bit too far to the other extreme, but after my abduction episode, I felt I never wanted to see the desert again. And neither of us handled the whole Natalie aftermath well. I knew Gil was worried about me but I pretended I was okay and refused to open up, and he did his old thing of throwing himself into work when personal stuff is too hard to handle. I thought we'd gotten past all that, but I guess trauma can make you regress.

It's been strange getting used to sleeping at night again. And wow, sleeping for more than a few hours at a time. A combination of the sea air and the activity, plus fewer nightmares, means I often get over seven hours. That's pretty amazing for me. The bad dreams haven't entirely stopped though. Once when thrashing around in the throes of the stuck-under-the-car scenario, I pulled the life ring off the bulkhead beside my bed. But even that's getting better; I can usually wake myself before I get to the fear of drowning part. Small steps, but progress.

Almost worse is when, after a peaceful, no-nightmare night, half-awake in the early morning I roll over and reach out, sleepily wanting to drape my arm over Gil and spoon. Hitting the hard metal bulkhead is such a rude awakening.

If I do find myself awake in the middle of the night and know that sleep is far away, I can go up on deck and seek peace there. The crew members who take the night watches like the quiet too, so all I have to do is wave up to the bridge as I pass below them.

Sometimes after a spell on deck I make a cup of chai to take back to bed, and we have a silent sign language: from the galley I raise a questioning mug, and a thumbs-up from the guy or girl on the helm means I make two.

Back on topic, I'm looking forward. Specifically I'm looking in the near future to the Neotrópica jungle camp, as Sue insists on calling it, in the Turrialba region of Costa Rica. We'll be helping to set up a new research station, and my specific task will be photographing and cataloguing the indigenous flora and fauna. My assignment starts in mid December, and I'll be there for at least three months. There's a possibility of extension; I'll see how it goes.

Who knows, maybe while I'm there something will happen to give me a steer, help me decide on a new path to follow in the evolving experiment that is my life.

I'm gradually coming to terms with the idea I don't have to decide everything all at once. I don't need to figure out what I'm doing for the rest of my life right here, right now. Which is good, because I'm still floundering, seeking my footing, trying to discover where I want to land. Meanwhile I'm productively employed ― okay, I'm living on my savings, but my expenses aren't high ― anyway, I'm doing worthwhile work and I'm daily engaging with new people, different perspectives, learning about other possibilities. That's enough for now.

xxxxxx

Feeling a touch sheepish, I use my key and let myself in the front door. I pause and listen in the big entry foyer. I can't hear anyone downstairs and veer towards the kitchen to start the coffee, get some juice. I never did get used to eating dinner in the morning, which is lucky as Heather is definitely on a daytime schedule now. Because of her diabetes she needs to be careful about what she eats, and when. I try, but I don't always make it here for breakfast. If I'm not here by 9:30 am she goes ahead.

One thing I've learned about diabetics, control of blood sugar is the key to keeping things on an even keel, warding off damage to eyes, heart, feet, you name it. It's scary when I stop to think about it, but Heather's been living with it for so long that it's become second nature for her. She was diagnosed a type 1 diabetic at the age of 11. It takes a helluva lot of discipline, but she's got that in spades. She's doing this thing of small frequent meals, so she would have eaten something when she woke around 6 am. She exercises regularly, test her blood sugar umpteen times a day. Even so, things don't always go smoothly. At least now I'm learning the signs, what to do, when to help.

Good. I can hear Heather coming down the stairs and I head over to greet her. Despite her welcoming smile, I see the tension in her shoulders. After our now traditional light hug and a kiss, Heather draws back in my arms and takes what looks like a calming breath. Hesitantly, she speaks, "Uh … Jim, we've got a gues―"

"Grissom," I interrupt, to her surprise. I raise my forefinger to forestall her next question. "Saw his car outside."

She nods in understanding, clearly relieved that she doesn't have to explain from scratch. Her eyes are tired as she sighs, "He's in a bad way." She looks like she's been up all night. A small shrug and she continues, "I said he could stay."

Heather still looks a little wary as I reply simply, "I figured." She relaxes further when I add, "I'd expect nothing less from you."

I grasp her hand, pulling her gently toward the kitchen. "Tell me about it while I scramble the eggs. You're on toast duty."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Blackbird**

**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH  
**Disclaimer** Not for profit borrowing of the characters.  
**Spoilers** Inspired the final scene in 9x05 _Leave Out All the Rest_. Chapter titles from the Beatles song.  
**Author's note** Thank you again to **smacky30** for the beta.

**Summary** Ages after the event, a LOATR fic.

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4: Take these broken wings and learn to fly

We make small talk while we work through the simple steps of preparing breakfast. The coffee machine is already percolating as I cook my contribution of scrambled eggs with chives, Heather tends the toaster and we touch base on the mundane happenings in our respective days.

But hovering over us, wafting invisibly around us, there's an enormous elephant in the room, a silent Grissom shadow that we're both avoiding.

Soon we're settled at the table in the breakfast nook ― why is it called a nook? I keep looking for crannies ― with loaded plates, silence reigns until we've both made good inroads to our meals. Then I take a long draft of coffee, wipe my mouth with my napkin and lean back, taking a pause.

"So …" My single syllable hangs in the air as Heather spreads sugar-free raspberry jam on a slice of toast then carefully sets the knife down on her plate.

"The eggs were very good, thank you."

Her stilted, somewhat formal speech confirms my suspicions. She's uneasy about the, uh, Grissom situation and my reaction to it. The whole him-being-in-the-guest-bedroom thing.

I nod, and venture a small smile to take the edge off the now tense atmosphere. "By the way, thanks for your help with the case."

At that Heather rolls her eyes. "You would have found the back room at Trance without me."

I shrug, silently trying to encourage her to talk to me. About the elephant. After a mammoth pause, she shakes her head slowly. Lifting somber eyes to me she begins to speak.

"He came in the midst of the downpour, late enough that I was already in my nightwear. Through the glass I could see him trembling on the door step, almost in … yes, a trance. When I opened the door he seemed to jolt out of it. He looked so sad, so desperate." She sighs, remembering. "I couldn't turn him away." She sips some coffee and puts the cup back down on the saucer. "I haven't slept."

"But―"

"I showered, dressed and ate around six am, and then we drank some tea."

I should have known she would keep to her schedule if at all possible.

"And I intend to catch a long nap with you when you go to bed." She smiles wearily, the thought brightening her solemn face.

"Sounds good." It'll be nice to actually sleep together. It doesn't happen very often and that's one of the reasons I'm edging ever closer to retirement. It's the only way to avoid night shifts.

xxxxxxx

Jim's concern for me is always touching. Beneath that gruff exterior he's a very emotional, loving man; sometimes his over-protective nature can be cloying, but I know it's his worried heart that guides his words, his actions so I readily bear any frustration he causes in that regard.

But he's been keeping things from me and, frankly, I'm irked. I know my lack of sleep is heightening my irritation, but I very much regret not having known before now that Sara had left. I would have gotten in touch with Grissom. Just to see how he was coping, offer him a chance to relax in an unpressured place. To be there for him. He's been there for me, more than once, and I would have liked to be able to return the favor.

I'd pegged him as a confirmed bachelor. Not gay, definitely not, but "married to his work". So when I saw Grissom and Sara's wordless communication in that room in Desert Palm it was a shock. A shock to see the reserved, undemonstrative Gil Grissom in love, with all the tenderness and vulnerability that entails. But I knew. Even as I lay deeply depressed in that uncomfortable bed, I saw their connection. Despite the overlay of awkwardness, each surprised to see the other in my hospital room, there it was, love pure and simple. Not that love is really ever either pure or simple.

I'm irritated, yes. However, Jim's a good man, and he doubtless had his reasons for not telling me. Whether I agree with them is for me to deal with. But I do want to know why he kept it from me. No time like the present ― I take in a calming breath before I speak. "How is it that I only found out in the early hours of this morning that Sara Sidle has left Las Vegas, and more importantly Gil Grissom?"

Jim's obviously been expecting this question, and wrinkles his brow prodigiously as he looks at me, eyes sad under the hooded lids. He visibly gathers himself, and finally speaks. "It was around the time of Zoe's birthday. I figured you had enough to deal with."

"Ah". I can feel my tense shoulders relaxing. As I intimated, he's a good man. And that is a good reason. I nod, my eyes warm. Jim looks relieved as I pick up my second slice of toast.

xxxxxxx

The sunset is glowing blood orange behind Grissom's shoulder, casting a warm light on the folded newspaper in his left hand. He's sitting on the window seat in the room I call my library, apparently attempting a crossword.

I'm pleased. I gather this was part of his normal routine, neglected in recent months as he struggled. I've been patient with him these last few days, but he's better rested now and I won't let him evade the issues any longer. It's time to fish or cut bait, as my father used to say.

Then I notice a note pad on top of his closed laptop.

"What's this, Grissom?" It's not like I'm prying, it was in plain view. He's got me thinking like a CSI now, and he's only been here a short time. It's a list, in his distinctive hand:

― _nervous smile_

― _sad eyes "we could survive anything". NOT happy_

― _can't look steadily at me/the camera - eyes dart around, up to the right, off to the left_

― _use of "honestly". Sure tell for a lie_

― _voice shaking, hesitation B4 "I think you were right" Trying to make herself believe it?_

I frown as I realize the answer to my own question. "You've been _analyzing_ the video she sent you? Like it's a piece of evidence in a case?!" My voice rises at the end with incredulity. No, that's not right. I do believe it. I just don't want to. He needs to get off this track, now. And it appears to be down to me to nudge him in the right direction. He's so stubborn though it may take an almighty shove. As he insisted, I'm not his therapist. So instead he's going to be on the receiving end of some tough love. I wish Jim hadn't gotten called into work early. It would be good to be able to tag team Grissom.

He looks warily over his reading glasses at me.

I'm not masking my irritation, and my tone is harsh as I continue. "You just can't―" Hearing myself, I stop. If I antagonize him he'll clam up completely. Even if I'm not his therapist, I must use therapy techniques. Too much honesty all at once, as a friend might well give, will not work with Grissom. My concern for him is feeding my frustration and it's not helping either of us. I need to rein in my annoyance and seek the objectivity that serves me well with my patients.

As I take a few deep, calming breaths he deliberately puts the newspaper down beside him on the padded seat, taking off his glasses and folding them neatly on top on the paper. Then he rubs his chin and tilts his head from side to side as he considers how to answer.

Perhaps he does have a stiff neck, but even so these are classic delaying tactics.

I stand, hand on hip, and wait. Not confrontational exactly, but he knows I will insist on a real answer: a pat deflection is unacceptable. We've gotten that far.

He draws in several deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Finally he speaks. "I ... was looking at it yes. I--I wanted to see her face." He stops there, wide eyes raised in a meek entreaty as if to ask, "Will that do?" To cap it off, he bites his lower lip.

As an attempt to garner sympathy, the earnest little boy look may well work with others; I'm not so easily swayed.

"Grissom ..."

His eyes wander down to the crossword again.

"Gil."

At that he looks up, shifting in his seat so he's facing me. Not looking _at_ me, but it's a start.

"You can't dissect it like that. It's not a piece of evidence."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and intertwining his fingers. He stares at his clasped hands a moment then he sighs and says, "It's all I have ... to help me decide."

"Grissom, we've skirted the edges of this for long enough now."

I pause, hoping that my instincts and training are steering me true. "Do you want to go to her?"

I can barely bear to breathe as I wait for his response. At last, he nods cautiously.

"To see what happens?"

He flinches perceptibly; I've hit a nerve, it seems. A tension-laden moment hangs in the air. I wait, barely daring to breathe. Finally he huffs out a half laugh and says, "Yes, I do."

He smiles, a small but genuine smile, as he rises swiftly and approaches with his distinctive swaying stride. Clasping my shoulders lightly, he drops a kiss on my cheek then takes a half-step back. His eyes alight now with warmth, with hope, he chuckles. "You always were good at cutting to the chase, Heather."

TBC

**A/n 2:** Remember to vote for whatever you fancy in the CSIfanfic awards - voting closes tomorrow (Sunday 20 September)


	5. Chapter 5

**Blackbird**

**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH  
**Disclaimer** Not for profit borrowing of the characters.  
**Spoilers** _Leave Out All the Rest_, _19 Down_ and _One to Go_. Chapter titles from the Beatles song.  
**Author's note** Sorry it's been so long since I updated, but I promise I will finish this. You may want to re-read chapters 1-4 to remind yourself where we've got to — I know I had to. There are several different speakers in this chapter, hopefully the who's who will be clear enough.

**Summary** Ages after the event, a post-LOATR fic.

* * *

**5: Blackbird singing**

Grissom's poker face is slipping, I tell ya.

That first evening of his stay at Heather's I'm in the kitchen, hot and sweaty after my cardio session on the elliptical machine, cooling off before my shower with a long tall glass of iced water. As I flick through the _Wall Street Journal_ — Heather likes reading the print version, and gets it delivered — I hear the quiet creaking of the stairs. I know Heather's in the exercise room off the garage, so it has to be him.

There I am in sweaty T-shirt and sagging sweat shorts, and suddenly I find myself staring intently at an article about Bonanza High school's star lacrosse player as I wait for Grissom to show himself.

My ears are finely tuned to Grissom's approach and I'm wondering what he's going to say when he sees me here.

What I'm going to say.

No idea.

So I start reading the article. Did you know lacrosse originated in North America, and was probably first played by the Iroquois? Me neither.

The footsteps stop and I take a long glug of water as he clears his throat.

I'm internally debating whether I should look up when finally he speaks.

"Uh … Jim …" He sounds confused. Then, a touch more confidently, he adds, "Hello."

Raising my eyes, I sketch a vague wave as I reply, "Hey, Gil." Trying for casual, even nonchalant. Nonchalant—there's a word I should use more often.

Grissom's frowning, the un-uttered question on his face. He rubs his left thumb across his fingertips as he checks out my clothes. Not "check out" in _that_ way. This is Grissom, after all. He studies, no, _observes_ what I'm wearing. Yeah, that's better.

His eyes narrow in thought. I can almost see the cogs whirring inside that sizeable brain.

"You … you're not on duty, are you."

It's more a statement than a question but I shake my head anyway.

"Or …" he raises his right eyebrow, "waiting to see me."

I smirk gently at that and agree, "Nope".

As Grissom's contemplating what to say next I interrupt his racing mind with, "You want coffee?"

He nods appreciatively and edges over to a chair on the other side of the table. I feel his eyes on me as I go through the familiar motions of grinding the beans and pouring water into the machine. Not that he can have much doubt by now, but it's clear I know my way around this kitchen.

Without words, we agree not to discuss how we both came to be there. Mutually mute, heh. Grissom's word play is catching even when he's not speaking.

Sitting back down, I push a section of the _Journal_ towards Grissom. After Heather finishes her workout she finds us companionably drinking steaming mugs of java, me skimming the money and investment pages and Grissom engrossed in the news section.

Heather launches into, "Gil, good to see you up. How did you sleep?" and I take that as my cue to leave, muttering something about going to get cleaned up as I walk past Heather, patting her on the shoulder.

I'm a dirty cop: I need a shower.

I crack myself up sometimes.

xxxxxxxxx

There's something different about him. I can't put my finger on it, but when Grissom walked into the break room a moment ago it was there.

He's calmly distributing assignments, letting Riley's good-natured grumbling and the guys' light banter play out without comment as he hands a slip to me: 419 in Green Valley.

Could be a lot worse; he could be asking me to help clear his paperwork.

But, as I thought, something's different. Normally once he's handed out assignments, Grissom makes a beeline for his office to pick up his kit or, on stay-in-the office nights like these, the coffee machine. Instead, he stands stock still, apparently rooted to the spot. He looks so very tired, but that's not all. He's … uncertain? No, more like nervous.

Somehow I sense that he has something to add, so I give him a gentle prod. "Is that it?"

To my surprise he says "No," sucks in a tense breath and then continues speaking.

When a bombshell drops it doesn't necessarily make a lot of noise.

Grissom's quiet voice is wreaking havoc.

My gasp is inaudible, I think.

He's leaving.

I'm supervisor.

A new hire.

Grissom's phone bleeps as he winds up his little prepared speech. He's got a case too.

After a pause he adds, "Okay?" He's trying to sound relaxed but his voice is so tightened by emotion it's almost a squeak. Grissom's unfocused eyes dart around the room a couple of seconds before he turns on his heel and escapes down the glass-walled corridor. I see a quick hand reach up to wipe a treacherous tear away from his eye.

A shocked silence hangs in the break room: Nick looks stoic, Riley serious, Greg stunned. And yes, it doesn't happen very often, but even I am speechless.

Wow.

He's going.

He's really going.

Gil Grissom is leaving CSI, of his own volition.

I always used to think he'd depart in a clash of egos and integrity ― his integrity warring with the egos of others.

But it's not like that. I know his heart hasn't been in the job for a while now, and of late he's been pulling back, less engaged. I mean, not answering the phone when he's on call; for Gil, that's like the first sign of the apocalypse. He's been unresponsive to my attempts to get him to talk to me, avoiding my oh-so-casual suggestions of a drink at the Tangiers or dinner at home when Lindsay's out of town on a softball trip.

Recently he seems to have been sleeping a bit better, and one day I saw him getting a ride to work with Brass. Maybe he's been talking to Jim? I hoped it was a good sign, anyway.

Even though I had sensed it was coming, to hear from his own mouth that he's finally made the decision to leave is a shock.

We speak a little later on, when we're alone together looking at custom sneakers. I hide my sorrow; he's had too much sadness lately.

Ah, Gil.

I'm going to miss you so much.

xxxxxxxxx

Despite the fact that Grissom's been Heather's … our … houseguest off and on for the last few weeks, he and I haven't really talked a lot. Unless you count time spent watching sport on TV and debating the relative merits of the Jets and the Bears, the Cubs and the Mets, not forgetting the Nets and the Bulls. He has revealed one item of personal information though, which explains his sports affiliations: after his Dad died, each summer Grissom's Mom sent him to spend part of his vacation with her brother, Uncle Herb, in Chicago and he's followed the Windy City's teams ever since. I haven't yet gotten him hooked on hockey, but give me time.

I leave the quote meaningful discussions unquote to Heather, and he's happy to just chill with me. Suits me just fine.

Grissom's always kept personal stuff very close to his vest (who does that remind me of?) and Heather's very diligent about keeping confidences so, believe it or not, I heard about his decision to leave through the grapevine. I guess he wanted to tell his team first. I can understand that. Even so, I hope we'll get a chance for more than the bullshit boating chat we had at PD. But with Grissom, you never know.

Whatever, I'm happy for him.

xxxxxxxx

I like the fact that we are now surrogate "parents" to Hank. With Grissom busy trying to wind things down at work, making arrangements for his condo and the like, it just seemed easier for me step in and assure the day-to-day care for the canine. His master still takes him for walks and frisbee-catching outings whenever he's free, but I've relieved Gil of the worry of having to co-ordinate with the dog sitter.

Grissom's dog is big but very biddable, and so completely gentle with my granddaughter. I'm so grateful that Jerome and I were able to agree such reasonable access — I have her for two days (and nights) a week. "Big furry boy", as she calls Hank, is happy to act as horse to Allison's jockey — she loves "riding" him around the back yard.

xxxxxxxxx

Maybe I'm unadventurous, but I like hanging around the camp. There's always something to do, and even if I get on better with some people than others, that's life, right?

And since I got the team trained that I like most fruits — but NOT bananas, no matter how much they think that's weird — and I looooove peanuts, things have been great.

Last week the new lady, the long skinny pale one, offered me something on her finger that she scooped out of a round container. Like peanuts, but no shell. Strange, but good. And very sticky. Stick to the roof your mouth and your paws and anything else it touches. Yum. Still not sure what it was, but delicious. She saw me enjoying it, then frowned a little before mumbling something about limited supplies and keeping it for her sandwiches.

No worries. I like peanuts best.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Blackbird**

**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** General/K  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara, Brass/LH  
**Disclaimer** Characters borrowed for fun, not profit.  
**Spoilers** _Leave Out All the Rest_, _19 Down_ and _One to Go_. Chapter titles from the Beatles song.  
**Author's note** It is done. Thank yous and general waffling appear at the end.

**Summary** Ages after the event, a post-LOATR fic.

**

* * *

**

6: Into the Light

There was no cake in the break room.

I insisted on that, and although Catherine didn't agree with me, she respected my choice. And I'm pleased I held firm.

Heather gave me a ride to the airport, and as I wait for the boarding call for my flight out of McCarran I reflect on how each person, in their own way, found a moment — in Hodges' case, several moments — to talk to me and say good bye, thank you, a few heart-felt words. So much more meaningful than small talk over cake could ever be, even if I sometimes had to battle against surging emotion to keep my calm facade.

Catherine was right, so many years ago, when she reminded me of my responsibilities as supervisor and the need to engage with the people around me, my work family. "Lift your head up out of that microscope," as she so pithily put it. I didn't appreciate then just how rewarding that can be.

It's fitting that she was the last person I said my silent goodbyes to as slowly I made my way down the lab's long central corridor, looking through the glass walls at the people, the world I'm leaving behind. Her knowing wink cheered me no end and I left the building with a warm, albeit wistful, smile on my face.

I will miss them all, I'm sure of it, but for now I'm filled with a serene sense of peace. It's the right time for me to go.

It has taken far too long, many missteps along the rocky road, tearing sorrow at times and so much soul-searching, but at last I'm ready.

Greg told me that I changed his life.

Today, the life I'm changing is my own.

And soon, I fervently hope, Sara's.

xxxxxxxx

I've tried to ignore the memory, but it keeps popping out of my subconscious at inconvenient times — pretty much any time, in other words — Gil, sitting in the Eames chair, his feet up on the ottoman, regaling me with butterfly-related quotes. It started after I stupidly revealed that I knew _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ by heart. He seemed to take it as some weird sort of personal challenge and, after he'd read up sufficiently, I got used to him coming out with gems like "What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly."

Some things don't change. It's officially my day off, but I'd really rather be working. I hear his voice again: "We are closer to the ants than to the butterflies. Very few people can endure much leisure."

It's a steamy trek through the jungle to the rutted excuse for a road and then a bumpy hour on the bus to the closest town, but there's nothing I need. Nothing I can buy in a store anyway. So I prefer to stay around the camp. I've already done my washing and it's dripping on the line. Next I'm going on a butterfly hunt.

I seem to have developed an obsession with day-flying Lepidopterans. I want to add a good blue morpho to my digital collection, and a zebra and … what was the name of the dark one with the deep pink patches? … the ruby-spotted swallowtail. Whether I'll be more successful than last time is anyone's guess. Not that they're hard to find, but taking good photos is a totally different matter. They always seem to sense when I'm about to press the button, and flit away out of my carefully composed shot.

Inevitably, that thought leads back to Gil and one of his many quotations: "Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you."

Yeah, well … I did send Gil that video, but I've been "sitting quietly" for weeks now and happiness is nowhere in sight.

Very occasionally I do manage to digitally capture a butterfly, and get an image I want to keep. I smile in satisfaction then immediately sigh, because my next thought is "Gil would love this." Every time I get a decent photo, it's the same scenario. Sometimes I try focus instead on ants or beetles, but changing the insect species doesn't help. It gets a little wearing after a while. And yet I keep going in search of butterflies.

Maybe I'll hold off on the butterfly photography. If I bribe the black-capped capuchin that hangs around the camp with some nuts I can take some more shots of her, while I figure out what to do next to while the day away. Minstrel, as I call her in my head, seems to know when I want her to stop eating and look at the camera. Or at least I like to think she does.

"In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf …"

xxxxxxxx

It's photo time again.

I've discovered that the camera lady is called Sara. Sometimes she concentrates for a long time to get a picture of a butterfly — our jungle butterflies are amazing, but they don't understand about keeping still for photos — and when she succeeds she smiles a little smile, then she sighs. Every time. She does the smile/sigh thing with beetles too, even ants. Wistful, that's the word. I reckon she should stop with the bugs; they just make her sad.

I don't make her sigh. She talks to me and she never shoos me away like the young guys do, and — oh yeah — she feeds me, so I'll pose for her whenever she wants.

She's putting some food up above her in the tree. Looks like it's my turn to star today. Of course I investigate. Nuts! Hey, I haven't seen these before. Partly open shells, with green bits peeking through. Weird, but … wow, these are goooood.

xxxxxxxx

There must be a clearing ahead — I can see the brighter light where the jungle canopy is less dense. I check the GPS: it can't be much farther. The feeling of peace I had when leaving Las Vegas has utterly deserted me. The adrenaline of anticipation thrums my pounding pulse.

To be so close seems surreal, yet I know I'm not dreaming. The sweat dripping from my pores and the damp patches on my shirt are all too real. Used to the desert's dry air, it will take me a while to acclimatise. But my physical discomfort is a happy reminder of my life-changing decision. Where Sara is where I want to be.

Just to the left side of the trail a _Tropidacris cristatus_ catches my eye. A beautiful specimen, the Costa Rican grasshopper is gilded by the foliage-filtered sun. I smile at the sighting, but I can't stop. My mission is vital, and insects must wait. Even the golden grasshopper.

A few more yards and … I've arrived.

There she is in the little clearing. Facing away from me, but I'd know her anywhere.

Sara.

The love of my life.

xxxxxxxx

She's picked up the camera now and is fiddling with the focus. I stop munching for a moment as I open my next nut, and I can hear someone approaching. No question it's a person. That two-step lumbering is unmistakable. Sara is unaware: human ears are next to useless.

The footsteps get closer, then stop. A man, hot and sweaty, is standing staring at Sara. He looks a tiny bit like that Indy guy in the movies Luis watches on his computer. But the beard's not right, and what's with that hat? Scratch the Indy idea.

Um … is he ever going to speak?

I'm wondering if I should alert Sara when suddenly, somehow, she turns around.

_Still_ no-one's speaking.

Capuchins would be screeching at this stage.

Finally he smiles, drops his back pack and they move together, into each other's arms, and kiss.

And kiss.

And kiss.

And kiss.

I'm guessing they know each other. Really well.

Love.

Awwwww.

Ya know, these nuts are really good.

END

_**

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**_

Endnotes

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly." — Richard Bach  
"We are closer to the ants than to the butterflies. Very few people can endure much leisure." — Gerald Brenan  
"Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you." — Nathaniel Hawthorne  
"In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf" — the start of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ by Eric Carle

**Author's note the final** Thanks to **SylvieT** for nudging me to finish and to **JellybeanChiChi** who told me I had to (or words to that effect). Thank you also to **Smacky30** for beta-ing when I was wise enough to ask for help. Er … this chapter hasn't had the benefit of a beta and the ending was dictated by the monkey, who seems to come from New Jersey — she insisted I wrote it this way. Last but not least, thanks to **goldengrasshopper** from whom I learnt that the Grissom family crest has a golden grasshopper on it. I think that's very geekishly cool.  
I had fun writing this; I hope you enjoyed reading it.


End file.
